Tales From The Forest
by Daydream Believing
Summary: 'Hatred only comes when you have no one left to love.' The story of Johanna's Hunger Games and how she lost everything she ever cared about.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

* * *

_**One week before the reaping.**_

I stare out into the trees for a moment, breathing in deeply and inhaling the scents of the forest. I would be perfectly happy to spend each and every day under those leaves, but I have responsibilities, and wandering around in the forest does not count as being responsible.

Apparently.

I sigh, and I heft the axe in my hands, flexing the muscles in my arm before hurling it into the stump in front of me. It sticks into the wood with a satisfying thud and I smirk at the criss-cross pattern of welts that mark its surface. It's much easier out here; I can lose myself in the repetitive motion, and just forget about everything else.

Unfortunately, my little brother has other ideas. I heave the axe back out from the wood, pulling my arms back over my shoulders and preparing to take another swing, but just as I ready myself to do so, I hear footsteps scraping along the grass behind me. "Johanna," a little voice calls out and I spin around, letting the axe fall to my side.

"What is it Ash?" I say with a sigh, taking in the scruffy form of my little brother. His clothes are torn, and the bottoms of his grey trousers coated in mud. He probably hasn't had a bath in days – which means that it's up to me to force him into one.

"Mama said to remind you of the time – you have your rehearsal in twenty minutes," he smiles a toothy grin up at me, obviously proud of himself for being able to remember such a long message.

_Thanks for the reminder, Ma. _She's been so enthusiastic about it the moment that I'd announced I'd gotten a part, but I can't help but think that it's come at just the wrong time. Just as she's started to get even worse, and I don't know if I need the extra pressure on my shoulders right at this moment. Still, I know that I'm going to be selfish, and do it anyway, because I'm enjoying it too much to back out now. I tell myself it's because it's about the only good thing going on in my life right now, but really I just don't want my suck-up of an understudy to get to step in and take my place.

"I'm coming," I tell him, and shove my axe back into the stump. I know that it'll stay safe at the bottom of our garden – no one usually ventures out as far as the stream apart from me. As I follow Ash back up the overgrown path, I cast one last glance back at the gurgling brook, and suck in another deep breath of air.

Ash slips a muddy little hand into mine, and I stiffen slightly; I still haven't gotten this maternal thing down just yet. "When will we see your play?" he asks as we step into the house. I make him wipe his shoes on the mat before I answer his question.

"In a couple of weeks," I tell him, feeling a stupid grin break out onto my face as I imagine opening night. This is the first play we've done at school for years, because we can never work up the money to pay for all the props, and the costumes. And, truth be told, I've missed the exhilaration of stepping up onto that stage in front of a room full of people and becoming someone completely different.

"Are you the main part?"

I snort in response to this; according to our director I'm far too unreliable, and unmanageable to be awarded the main role. Not that it particularly bothers me; I could tell from the smile on his face that he thinks I'm good, and people don't think that very often about me. "Go tell Ma to get some rest," I instruct Ash and he nods his head brightly, "I'll see you later, alright?" He throws his spindly arms around my waist and I squeeze him awkwardly– he smells like the forest. He's probably spent the morning running around outside with Aster. I can't help but feel I should be keeping a better eye on them.

I dart out of the front door, yelling goodbye over my shoulder and hearing a vaguely muffled response coming from upstairs. It must be Ma. My stomach contracts slightly; perhaps, if I were a good daughter, I would go up and say goodbye to her properly. Wrap my arms around her, and tell her that I love her. But I can't face that room anymore – it hurts too much to see her wasting away like that.

I shake my head, forcing myself to concentrate on the play. But I throw another glance backwards as I drag my rusty old bicycle along the garden path, sighing as I spot the tyres which are pretty much flat. Still, taking this thing will be quicker than walking, and I'm already late.

I pedal furiously, wincing every time the tyres hit a stone, but I revel in the whoosh of the wind against my cheeks and the green blur of the trees that rush past me. I yell out in exhilaration, letting the wind carry my voice away. It's so much easier when I don't have to worry about pleasing anyone else. I always have to pretend to be someone I'm not. I suppose that's why acting comes so naturally to me.

All I really want to be is free, but dreams like that don't come true when you live in a place like Panem.

I arrive in town about half an hour later, screeching my rusty old bicycle to a stop outside the front of the school. I'm definitely going to get yelled at for being so late. I chain it up quickly – not that anyone would actually want to steal it. I mean, the thing belonged to my dad when he was my age, so I wouldn't have thought that it would be particularly appealing to bike thieves.

I dart into the school hall; they've started without me. Miss Prissy-Queen-Bee is doing her monologue, and I roll my eyes at the lack of emotion in her words. They only chose her for the lead because she's pretty, and popular. I normally zone out whenever she's doing a scene, even when I'm up on stage with her, which means I get yelled at for my lack of reactions.

Well, I get yelled at in rehearsal no matter what I do, so I might as well carry on blocking her out.

"Johanna," Mr Oakley spreads his arms wide as he spots me entering the room, and he signals for Daisy to come to an end. "You're late," he calls out.

I simply shrug in response, "I'm always late," I reply. I'm really not in the mood for him to have a go at me – it's not as though I was even needed in this scene.

"Johanna!" I twist my head, and grimace as I spot the source of my name. "I almost had to step in for you."

_Yeah, well sorry you didn't get the chance. _I glare at Nysa, whose smile quickly fades and I shove past her. "Am I even needed yet?" I demand impatiently, drawing a look of consternation from Mr Oakley.

"Please don't speak to me like that," he says in a placid tone. I just narrow my eyes at him; if he didn't need me here, then there were plenty of things that I could have done at home. Ash's bath, for example, and I'm sure that Will won't be planning to make a start on dinner anytime soon. Dad's been covering more and more extra shifts recently, and so it's been completely up to me to pick up the slack. I wish Ma didn't look so sick, then I could actually resent her for this. It's not like I asked to suddenly become a parent figure to three needy little kids. Not that Will is even that little really, he's just a lazy sod.

"Yes sir," I reply with disinterest. I don't particularly care what he thinks about me. Him, or anyone else in this room.

He raises his eyebrows at me, "go backstage and get ready for your first scene. We'll need you in about five minutes." Nysa darts after me as I rush up the stairs and brush past the curtain.

Once I'm on stage, I wait for my cue in anticipation; this is my favourite part of the play. It's the scene where my character releases her frustration, and anger, and I get to do just the same when I play the part.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to focus, to leave all thoughts of Ma behind and become the woman who has just lost everything that she ever loved. Who has to face the agony of dealing with her broken life all by herself.

"You pushed him away," Rook, who plays the male lead, exclaims, his eyes meeting mine and then flittering away. This is the man who killed my character, Nessa's, family. "You pushed them all away."

And so I step into Nessa's head, and imagine how I would feel if I returned home to find my family dead. I imagine the anger rushing through my blood, the need for revenge that would overwhelm me. I can feel the anguish, and the pain so vividly that it may as well be real. My hands clench into fists as I picture wrapping my fingers around the knife in order to seek vengeance against the man who had destroyed my family. I hang my head in horror, not wanting anyone to see the hurt in my eyes.

I open my mouth to speak my lines.

* * *

I bang through the front door, slamming it behind me as I enter the house and I call out, "Will?" I yell at the top of my lungs, listening to my voice echo throughout the house. He pokes his head around the doorway leading into the living room.

"Jo? There's no need to yell," he says placidly, and I clench my fists in frustration.

"I guess you haven't started dinner yet?" I snap viciously; I feel exhausted, and would nothing more than to just collapse onto my bed and sleep off this sorry mess of a day. But, of course, now I have to make tea, get Ash and Aster to have a bath, put them to bed. And tend to Ma. I stomp my feet in frustration as he shakes his head, and gestures to the collection of woven baskets which lie on the wooden floor of the living room. "Are you kidding me?" I shriek at him, releasing my anger at him, "this is all you've done all day?"

"I just wanted to make some money, to help Ma." As much as I may feel like howling in fury and smashing all of his stupid baskets, his words ring in my mind. After all, isn't that the exact same reason why I've been taking so much extra work recently? The doctor warned us that if we can't get her the medicine soon, then she doesn't stand a chance. And every time I go into her room, and take in her twig like arms and legs, I just want to screw up my eyes and pretend that none of this is happening. Because she is _dying _and we don't have the money to do anything to stop it. "I'll start it now," he continues when I don't respond.

I just shake my head, and run my hands through my hair, tugging it slightly at the roots. "That's my job," I mutter, "mine and Dad's. You don't worry about making money, just cook the meals." Not that there's all that much in our cupboards anymore; most of our money has to go on Ma, as much as she may protest about it.

"I want to help," he says, meeting my eyes with desperate dark ones of his own. He looks as tired as I feel, with dark shadows under his eyes, and pale skin. The walls in our house aren't particularly thick, and I've heard him waking from nightmares every night this week. I take a step towards him, and he flinches, perhaps thinking I'm about to give him a whack or something. A pang of guilt rushes through me, and I ruffle his soft brown curls.

"You can," I tell him, "you can help me make dinner."

I'm just chopping the carrots, and watching Will carefully as he peels the potatoes when I hear a cry from upstairs. I almost drop the knife in my panic and I start into the other room, convinced that something has happened to Ma. I've reached the bottom of the stairs, when Aster suddenly comes hurtling down them, so distracted that she crashes into me with a thud. I take in her tear stained face and her pitiful little sobs. "What's happened now?" I ask, resignedly.

"It..it's Ash," she says, sobbing harder and trying to wrap her arms around me. "He... he kept... pinching me. And...Mama was...she was...sleeping. I...only told him off...for making noise...but then...he..."

"Then he started pinching you."

She nods, her chin trembling as she extends her arm and shows me the pink marks on the inside of her wrist. I roll my eyes; I could _really _do without this right now. "ASH!" I yell up the stairs, "you'd better get down here right now."

There's a thud, and then I hear his feet scampering towards the stairs. His head appears round the edge of the banister, his wide set eyes peering down at me anxiously. "Did you pinch your sister?" I demand. He shakes his head, tossing his curls.

"I didn't pinch her," he whines, "she's making it up." He points down at Aster who then breaks out into even louder sobs.

"I can see the marks on her arm. She wouldn't exactly pinch herself, would she?" I pat Aster's head; the biggest show of affection I can bring myself to cope with.

"She's a liar," he shrieks, stomping his little feet and sending reverberations running down the stairs. Will darts through from the kitchen, still clutching a potato in his hand.

"What's going on?" he asks, glancing between me and Ash with confusion painted across his face.

"Just, look after Aster would you?" I mutter, pushing her in his direction. He instantly wraps an arm around her shoulders, and I feel slightly envious of the way in which he's such a natural. He should be the one in charge, and not me. Only fourteen, and he's so much better at this than I am. "Come on Ash, down you come."

He starts down the stairs, taking them one at a time with his head hanging down. The minute he reaches the floor, he tells me, "she was annoying me. She kept saying how Mama loves her more than she loves me. And I only pinched her once." I just raise my eyebrows at his words, "fine, I pinched her three times." He folds his arms tightly across his chest and glares up at me. "She deserved it."

"No one deserves to be pinched," I tell him calmly, privately wishing that I could pinch him for causing so much fuss while I'm trying to make dinner. "Go and apologise to Aster."

He shakes his head obstinately, "I won't. She should apologise to me first – she started it."

I take his shoulders, and turn him round to face Aster. "I won't say sorry," she mutters.

I exchange a glance with Will, who simply shrugs in response. _Thanks for the support kid. _"What if you apologise at the same time?"

Ash just starts screaming and I want to clamp my hands over my ears. Or, alternatively, his mouth. "Ash?" I try to call over his yelling, but his screeching drowns me out. I groan with frustration – I don't have time for this. "Why do you have to make everything so difficult?" I shriek at them, before shoving past Will and slamming the kitchen door behind me.

I can't keep pretending as though I can cope with this – I'm no good at filling in for Ma. I press my hands to my eyes and lean my elbows onto the kitchen counter. It's covered in crumbs – just something else that I need to take care of.

I start chopping up the carrots once more, bringing my knife heavily down onto the worktop, hacking at the carrot viciously in an attempt to quell my anger. For _Panem's _sake, can't they manage to avoid an argument for one measly minute?

I huff, and stomp around the kitchen, chucking vegetables in pans and stirring the wooden spoon haphazardly around in the pot.

The result is a watery, brown, weak imitation of Ma's stew. Well, it's all the others deserve really, and so I yell out for them to get themselves into the kitchen or their dinner's going straight in the bin. Which is probably where it should go anyway. But that would be a waste of food, so it's an empty threat. And they know it.

Still, they come anyway. "You alright Jo?" Will asks, looking at me with a concerned expression as the three of them cross to the table with tentative steps. I sigh, pressing a hand to my temple – I didn't mean to upset them, I would never deliberately set out to do something like that. But I just get so angry with them – I glare at Will, infuriated with the fact that, once again, it was left up to me to prepare the dinner. Even though I shouldn't be annoyed because he was taking care of the little ones, something which I'm clearly incapable of doing anyway. But rational thoughts have never helped to calm me down, and they certainly don't work now.

I ladle the stew out onto the chipped plates, relishing in slopping it impatiently into them despite the fact that I manage to splash some onto my top. I slam each one down onto the table, not particularly caring when some spills over the edges, even though dad would tell me off for wasting food if he saw me. I pour some out for myself, and then leave the rest of it for dad. I'll take some up for Ma later, but she's usually feeling quite sick around this time. Anyway, I know that dad prefers to eat with her when he gets back from work.

* * *

"How long was it that time?" Ash asks eagerly as he emerges from beneath the surface of the water, his hair slicked down against the side of his cheeks.

"Umm... Twenty seconds, " I blag quickly. I had almost fallen asleep right there on the bathroom floor rather than counting how long he managed to hold his breath for this time.

"Only twenty?" he sounds disappointed.

"That's right," I say, trying to suppress a yawn behind my hand. "Why don't you try again?" I really wish that he wouldn't though. Aster has already been bathed and put to bed, so once I've persuaded Ash to get back out of the tub then I can finally collapse onto my own mattress.

"You weren't counting properly," he suddenly wails.

"No one likes a sore loser," I point out, "and anyway-" My words are cut off when Ash crashes his little fists down onto the surface of the water, splashing water straight into my face. I stare at him furiously for a moment as drops roll slowly down my cheeks.

I snatch the sponge out of his hand, and fling it against the peeling wallpaper. It bounces off and then ricochets against the floor. Ash looks at me with shock on his face. I take one look at him, and feel the anger filling me up once more. I dart out of the room, and across the landing, planning to slam my door before I feel the need to start screaming at him. But before I can reach the sanctuary of my bedroom, a voice stops me.

I push open the door and poke my head inside. I've tried to avoid this room, and Ma, as much as I possibly could for the past six months. I take in the sight of her now – her sunken cheeks, and the heavy shadows under her dark eyes. "Jo?" she asks gently, and suddenly, stupidly, I feel tears welling up in my eyes, pricking my eyelids trying to make their escape.

"I can't do it Mama," I find myself whispering, hating that I have to show my weakness in front of her. I'm supposed to act strong, and capable in front of her. She opens her arms and I want to shut my eyes to avoid seeing how bony they are. But I cross the room without hesitating and wrap my arms around her, needing her to comfort me.

"Johanna," I hear her begin, but I quickly jerk backwards. I don't deserve her sympathy after the things I've done tonight. Instead, I reach into my pocket and pull out the coins that I earned earlier from clearing our neighbour's yard. She shakes her head as she sees what I'm holding. "If you earned it, you keep it," she tells me firmly, closing my fist back over the money.

"Take it," I mutter, "I want you to use it for your medicine. I know it isn't much, but I'll make more, and then we'll have enough soon. Because dad made quite a lot yesterday, and-"

"Johanna," she murmurs softly, holding my gaze with her dark eyes. I know that I was blathering on, but that's just what I do when I get uncomfortable. She wraps her arms back around me once more and I bury my head into her shoulder, feeling just as I did when I was a little girl. I have to find enough money for her somehow; I have to make her better, because I don't know what I'm supposed to do without her. I'm not quite ready to lose that feeling of being just a child quite yet.

* * *

_I do not own The Hunger Games, otherwise Johanna probably would have played a much bigger role._

I am planning on doing Johanna's story right up until the end of Mockingjay, but I can't promise that updates will be particularly regular. If you read this far, then please review. Thanks :D


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 1_

* * *

**_A week later._**

I tug impatiently at my blouse, the ruffles are really starting to get on my nerves, and the stupid thing just won't hang straight. Aster bounces along beside me, her face glowing with excitement at going into town, a place that she hasn't had much call to visit recently. Of course, she's only six, so she has no reason to worry about today, yet. Or even much understanding of what's going to happen. She knows that the reaping is something bad but, beyond that, she doesn't have a clue, and I'd prefer it if it could stay that way forever.

Ma is at home today, so you know it must be bad - they only let the most seriously ill people remain in bed on reaping day

Will glances nervously at me as the town square begins to come into view. I can hear the buzz of anticipation emanating from the crowd who swarm around the platform. Ugh, it's so much easier the other 364 days of the year, when I can pretend to ignore the power that the Capitol holds over us. But today, it's painfully obvious just how insignificant we are. And I really hate being overlooked.

Dad clasps a hand on my shoulder, giving me a reassuring squeeze. "Can you make sure Will gets to the right section?" he says tightly, the strain of the past six months is so unnervingly clear in his expression. I had always been used to my dad being a strong, confident person, but I guess Ma's illness has taken a toll on all of us.

Take me, for example, I'm fairly certain that I wasn't always such a moody bitch, but that's what looking after three kids will do to a girl. This is a pretty decent reminder of why I should never _ever _have children of my own.

I nod tightly in response to his words and he wishes us both good luck before wrapping his arms around the shoulders of Ash and Aster and leading them away into the crowd.

"Come on then," I say, trying to adopt a light-hearted tone, but from the look Will shoots me as we set off towards his section I can tell that he's not buying it. Not that I'm surprised, light and hearted are two words that I would never dream of using to describe myself.

I take the lead, winding my way through the throng of people, elbowing them out of my way if they try and get too close. That's another reason why I hate the reaping days – no one has any sense of personal space.

"Jo, I don't need you to babysit me," Will mutters from behind me and I just roll my eyes in response. What does he think my job has been for the past six months? But it's more than that – I don't want to leave him alone during the reaping. If I had the choice, I would stand next to him while they read out the names. I reach backwards now, searching for his hand, and I feel him clasp his tightly around mine.

I try to tell myself that it's more to offer him comfort than it is to help me, but I don't believe myself. As we step into his section I keep dragging him forward, ignoring his resistance. "Johanna," he grumbles, "I'd be happier just standing at the edge. I don't-" his words are suddenly cut off, and I whirl around just as another boy barges straight into him.

Perhaps it wouldn't bother me so much – I mean, this is the reaping, it's crowded and all courtesy goes out of the window when you're scared for your life, but then I catch the smirk on his face. My jaw automatically clenches, and I tear my hand out of Will's. He starts shaking his head, "Leave it, Johanna, please."

I ignore him and dart after the boy, grabbing his shoulder tightly. He spins round, glaring at me in annoyance. "What're you doing?" he demands.

Wrong question. My anger surges and my grip on him tightens. "What were _you _doing?" I snap. The only person allowed to beat my little brother up is me. No one else has the right to lay a finger on him.

He throws a scathing look over my shoulder which I quickly realise is directed at Will. "Need your sister to fight your battles for-?" His words are cut off as I shake him fiercely.

"Don't touch him," I say, lowering my voice and my head so I can look directly into his eyes. I inch my face closer to his, "_ever _again. Do you understand?"

"Johanna," Will tugs at my arm as my anger surges. Who does this kid think he is?

I shake him again, "I said, do you understand?"

He nods quickly, still struggling to get out of my grasp. I take a deep, calming breath and force myself to let him go. He pushes his way deeper into the crowd, leaving me glaring after him with my heart racing in my chest.

"Thanks a lot Johanna," Will says dully, "I'm going to get it in the neck for that at school tomorrow"

"So? I'll help you out again," I tell him firmly.

He just sighs in response, "I don't always need you to come my rescue," he mutters, before disappearing into the crowd. I watch as his tousled hair vanishes between two other boys and then I heave a sigh of my own. My head always tells me to stay out of it, but my heart says that he's my little brother, and I don't want to see him get hurt. I turn on my heel and wander over to my section.

I find myself in the midst of the seventeen year old section, standing shoulder to shoulder with our next door neighbour, a kind hearted girl called Rosa. I can't say I've ever had much to do with her, but at the reaping everything is different – everyone feels the same fear, and that unites us in a way that nothing else does. Of course, the moment that this is over we'll go back to being simply vague acquaintances but, just for today, it helps to know that she feels the same way I do. She casts me a reassuring smile, and I make myself do likewise. I promised Ma that I wouldn't get angry today – and I've already broken that promise once, so now I _have _to keep myself under control.

Then a hush falls suddenly across the crowd as our green haired escort, Phineas Albone, gets to his feet and crosses to stand beside the reaping balls. I can't help but curl my lip at his stupidly excited expression and the way in which he almost skips as he walks. He's been our escort for as long as I can remember, and he's also aggravated the hell out of me for as long as I can remember.

"I hope you're all as excited as I am," he exclaims. _Yeah, think again_.

He spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the Mayor to begin reading the treaty. I roll my eyes as he begins droning away in his monotone voice, just as he does every year. And just as every year, I pay absolutely no attention whatsoever to the words which spill from his mouth.

Finally, he finishes telling us how bad all of our ancestors are, and how we deserve everything we get, and Phineas clasps his hands together in excitement. "Now, it's what we've all been waiting for. Time to select our tributes!"

Gosh, yes – this is _just _what I've been waiting for. Doesn't he realise how horrifyingly affected his accent is? It makes me want to clamp my hands against my ears to block him out. But his hand is already descending into the glass ball to select the name of our female tribute, and I don't think now is exactly the best time to be blocking out his words. Because, what if-

"Johanna Mason," he yells out from the stage, a wide grin spread over his face, and I do a double take.

_What?_

My mind goes absolutely blank – what the hell just happened? You can't be serious right? If that guy just read _my _name off that piece of paper then I am going to seriously pissed.

Yeah, well judging from the anxious look that Rose is shooting in my direction, he actually did say it. Great – so it wasn't just my imagination running wild. Well, isn't that fantastic? But my brain still isn't working properly. It's as though everything around me has gone completely silent. Huh, I hope I haven't turned deaf and been reaped on the same day – because that would be a _great _combination.

"Johanna," someone suddenly hisses my name, breaking the spell of silence that had seemingly settled across the crowd. I shake my head, trying desperately to wake myself back up.

I take a trembling step forward, begging my knees not to give way beneath me, but I can already feel stupid tears beginning to prick at the back of my eyelids. I want to brush them away – I _never_ cry. I haven't for years. But honestly, what's the point in trying to hide it? I don't stand a chance in hell of making it out of this thing. Might as well bawl like a fucking baby – it's not as though it will make a blind bit of difference.

So with tears streaming down my cheeks, I mount the stairs and climb up onto the stage. It's only when I'm standing there that I realise just how many people there are in District 7 and right now they're all focused on my tears. What the hell were the odds that it would be my name he picked? I think of my family standing somewhere out there amongst the crowd, and then I think of Ma. Lying in her bed at home, completely unaware of what has just happened. Will I get to say goodbye to her?

"Now for our male tribute," Phineas says brightly beside me, after I just stand there, staring absently into the crowd rather than shaking the hand he offers me. He dips his hand into the other ball. "Silas Haywood," he announces, waving the slip around.

The name sounds vaguely familiar, but at this point I don't particularly care. Of course, if he's some pathetic weakling then it's all the better for me, but that would just be one tribute. What about the careers? I shove my hands into the pockets of my dress to try and stop them from shaking. I don't think it works because our only, and ancient, female victor, Dara Kindell, glances over at me with a sympathetic smile.

I try to ignore her, and watch as Silas pushes his way out of the crowd and clambers up onto the stage. He's tall – much taller than I am, with dark hair and a swagger to his walk which makes me suspect that I'm not going to get on with him very well. I think maybe I've seen him around in school before, because he does look slightly familiar, but then again most people in District 7 look the same so it doesn't really mean anything.

"District 7, I give you your tributes," Phineas announces, taking both of our hands and bowing down theatrically. Neither me nor Silas follow his example. Me, because I'm thinking of how I've done this at the end of plays countless times before, but it is a very different feeling. Then I blanch when I realise that now Nysa will get to play my role. Well, the play will be ruined, but at least I won't be around to see it.

The moment that the half-hearted applause comes to an end, a Peacekeeper appears beside my should and promptly starts to drag me off towards the Justice Building. Most of me wants to start screaming at him, and lashing out as though he is to blame for this, but the rational, far smaller, part of my brain suppresses this urge. I still can't stop myself stiffening slightly at the feel of his hand on my arm. But I force myself to go with him unresistingly, and I hang my head so that I don't have to look at him.

We enter the Justice Building – I've never seen the inside of it before, and I think perhaps the plush velvet sofas and marble ceilings ought to make some sort of impact upon me – a forest dweller – but I can't really bring myself to care. I just let myself be led into a tiny box of a room and wince slightly as the Peacekeeper slams the door shut in my face.

I sigh, and cross to the sofa in the corner of the room. I perch on the edge, and pick at the stuffing that's protruding from one of the holes. I can't believe how spectacularly my life has just fallen to pieces, and all in the space of about ten minutes as well.

Just as I've started to slump lower into the sofa, I hear the door creak open and my head jerks upright again. Ash flies across the room, and launches himself onto me. I wince at the impact against my ribs, but then decide that I should probably get used to being in pain. After all – that's all I have to look forward to for the rest of my life.

"Why do you have to go to the Capitol, Jo?" Ash asks suddenly from his place on my lap, raising his eyes to meet my own.

"Because I won," I say dully. How do you explain to a seven year old what the premise of the Hunger Games is? Sure, he's seen parts of it on television before – he has no choice – but I don't think he even really understands that it's real.

Aster crosses the room, and sits beside me on the sofa, resting her head against my shoulder. I feel slightly uncomfortable for a moment, but then I start to relax.

I glance over at Will, "no heartfelt goodbyes from you?" I snap, "or are you still angry about earlier?" I narrow my eyes at him, but he simply smiles at me.

"Were you crying, Johanna?" he demands, raising an eyebrow at me. "You_ never_ cry."

Huh, what do I say to that? It's not as though I can deny it – my eyes are probably all red and puffy by now.

_Yeah, I decided that I'm not going to make it back home, so I might as well just cry myself into the grave. _

Maybe not.

Inspiration suddenly strikes. "I have a plan," I announce mysteriously, "I don't expect you to understand."

"Your plan is to cry?" he says incredulously, "I don't think that's going to work when some huge Career is coming towards you with a-"

I glance pointedly at Ash and Aster, both of whom still have their arms wrapped tightly around me. I'm not normally one to censor my speech around them – I mean, they have to grow up at some point right? But right now it seems like the perfect excuse to get Will to shut up, seeing as I actually have no idea what my grand plan could possibly be.

"Where's dad?" I say suddenly, glancing at the door as though I expect him to suddenly come bursting through it.

"He went home, to get Ma," Will says, looking at his feet.

"She's too sick," I snap impatiently, "just go after him, and tell him not to bother." I don't want her to get worse because of me. Not that it's really possible for her to get all that much worse, but still.

"I think she'll want to say goodbye," he says in a tone so sarcastic that I'm almost proud of him. Then suddenly he crosses the room, and pulls Aster upright. I glance up at him in surprise for a moment, before he plops down onto the sofa next to me and wraps his own arms around me to replace Aster's.

"I don't want you to go, Jo," he murmurs, squeezing me so tightly that it's pretty damn uncomfortable. He must realise how awkward all this soppy talk is making me, but it doesn't stop him from gushing about how much he needs me to back it back home for him. It's not until he finally says those dreaded three little words that I feel obliged to take action to make him stop talking.

I free my arms from around Will and whack him on the back of the head. He looks up at me with raised eyebrows, "what was that for?"

What am I supposed to reply to that? _Please don't tell me you'll miss me because I'll probably end up crying again. _I just shrug, refusing to look him in the eyes. Why does this have to be so hard? Part of me almost wishes that they didn't let us say goodbye, because how can I go into the arena knowing that I'm leaving them all behind?

I guess it gives me a reason to fight, because as I look at the three of them huddled around me now, I know that I can't leave them to fend for themselves. I just chew on my lip for a moment, wondering how much longer Ma is going to last, and whether Dad will be able to cope with them without her.

Don't get me wrong, I know that I can barely cope, but at least I'm around to make an effort. Dad's at work so often that I can't even remember the last time that I had an actual conversation with him.

"When are you going to come back?" Aster suddenly asks, glancing over at me with wide set, anxious eyes.

What in Panem's name do I say to that? Luckily I'm spared the horror of having to piece together an answer to this when the door slides open and Dad pokes his head through the crack. "Are you kids finished now? Your Ma and I want to say goodbye to Johanna too."

Aster immediately gets to her feet and darts over to the door, not even casting a backwards glance at me before she disappears out of my sight. I feel a strange pang deep within my stomach as I realise that the sigh of her blonde plaits vanishing behind the door might be the last memory I ever have of her.

"See you soon, Jo?" Ash says, tearing himself away from me and staring at me intently with his dark eyes.

I nod, "you look after yourself Ash. And no more pinching Aster, you promise?"

"Promise," he says and then he too is gone and I'm left to face Will, the only one of my siblings who fully understands what is going to happen to me.

"Johanna?" I look up at him, confused by the suddenly fierce look on his face. My little brother has never looked fierce in his life, believe me, I've tried many a time to infuriate him, but nothing ever works. "You have a good shot. Just get your hands on an axe, and keep out of the way of the stronger tributes. You _have _to come back home. Ok, Jo?"

I nod my head – what else can I do? Tell him that already, at the bottom of my heart, I know that I'm not going to be coming back home again? No, I'll let him believe that I still have some hope left.

"I will," I snap impatiently, wanting him to leave before the stupid tears start pricking at my eyelids again. I haven't cried for years – I'm not planning on letting it happen more than once today. He throws his arms around me, and I squeeze him tightly back for a moment, before pushing him firmly away.

And then I'm alone.

I press the flats of my palms together tightly as I wait for my parents. Finally they push the door open, and Dad walks in first, one arm around Ma's waist. I can tell that she's leaning on him pretty heavily, but it's not as though she weighs anything, so I guess it's not really that much of a strain for him.

"What are you doing Ma?" I demand, needing to fill the silence with anger rather than with words of love, and regret. "You'll make yourself even worse by leaving your bed. You know what the doctor said."

"I had to say goodbye," she murmurs, watching me with sad eyes.

Great, even my own mother has given up on me, because it's clear she doesn't ever think she's going to see me again.

But then I realise that I've already pretty much decided that myself – come to the conclusion that I have no real chance of winning. And then I consider for a moment what winning could really mean to our family.

You get prize money, a new house, food is provided for the whole district. I don't give a damn about the new house, but money is a different matter. Because if I won then I would be able to buy her that medicine, then I wouldn't have to see her wasting away any more. If I win then I can save her life and I feel my jaw clench in determination.

She sits down heavily on the sofa beside me and I wrap my arms around her. Then I hear her whisper gently against my ear, "you can act, Jo. Make the others believe you're not worth fighting, that you're just a weakling."

I hug her tightly, thinking over her words for a moment, wonder if I could really pull something like that off. Well, I suppose I already started with those stupid tears at the reaping. As much as it may be a bit of a blow to my pride to act pathetic in front of the whole of Panem, Ma's plan is good, and I have to do something to ensure I have a chance of winning. That I can bring the prize money home, and save her.

* * *

_I do not own The Hunger Games, otherwise Johanna probably would have played a much bigger role._

And I just want to say a quick thank you to Daydreaming Viking Girl and Where the Story Ends for reviewing the first chapter. :) I might not be able to update for a while because I'm trying to focus on finishing my other story before I get too absorbed in this one, but I already had this chapter written so... :D


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 2_

* * *

There's a knock on my door, and my head immediately jerks up. I sigh; I don't want to have to go to dinner and turn on the water works again. It's surprisingly difficult to keep up the pathetic act, possibly because I _detest _anyone seeing me as weak.

I roll my eyes – I suppose I'll have to get used to it because I do think Ma has a point. If I can actually convince the other tributes that I'm not worth any effort on fighting then I could just survive this thing. I clench my jaw, thinking of Ma's skinny arms and waxy skin. The image of giving her the medicine is all that is keeping me determined to carry on with this plan, even though it goes so completely against my nature.

I rise to my feet, and cross over to the door. As I heave it open I see Phineas standing in front of the doorway, an annoyed expression on his face. _You knocked about five seconds ago, _I think bitterly as he begins complaining as he leads me towards the dining room. _These Capitol people are so damn impatient._

I quickly drop my head as we step into the dining cart and I spot Silas already lounging in one of the chairs and Blight leaning on the table next to him. I need to make it seem as though I'm deathly afraid of my opponent, even if he's clearly a complete imbecile.

"Recovered from your breakdown at the reaping yet Johanna?" are the first words he says as I enter the room. I resist the urge to clench my fists and punch him in the stomach.

Instead I just murmur disjointedly under my breath and scurry to sit in the chair which is the first away from his. I don't miss the look that Dara exchanges with Blight, who is Silas' mentor. They clearly think I stand no chance whatsoever.

Good, that means that my plan in working.

"After dinner we'll watch the recap the reaping and then have a chat with both of you about your abilities," Blight mutters, his head trained on his meal.

I raise my head just in time to catch the scathing look which Silas flashes in my direction. My resolve almost breaks, and my hands actually start to curl into fists at the expression on his face, but I quickly smooth them out and reach across the table for a bowl of vegetables.

I ladle them carefully onto my plate, ignoring the others as they start up a conversation about the chicken. I don't really give a damn about the chicken so I concentrate on my food.

Dinner flickers by quickly, with me neglecting to say a word the entire meal. I can't bring myself to make inane conversation like the rest of them do – how can I pretend that this isn't happening? It's not in my nature to just sit around and ignore problems – if I'm not looking for a solution then I feel horribly unproductive, so right now I feel as though I should be doing everything in my power to ensure that they don't put me in that arena.

Of course, I have absolutely no choice whatsoever but to simply sit here and nod occasionally along to whatever the latest pointless comment from someone seated around the table was.

Finally the torturous meal is over, though I'm not all that sure that what is coming next will be any better; I have to watch the recap of the reapings and examine my fellow tributes. Normally I would be sitting home and making snide remarks about the tributes, trying to make Will laugh by commenting on their hair or their expression as they mount the stage. Today I will only have my own ridiculous breakdown to mock.

We traipse through into the other room – Dara offers me a hand as I force myself to pretend to stumble as I cross through the doorway. It's pretty damn humiliating to be helped by some decrepit old woman who is so wrinkled and spindly that I'm surprised that she hasn't already begun to rot.

Silas just smirks at me as I sit down on the sofa, curling myself up in the corner, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. It doesn't work because he simply comes and throws himself down right next to me, pushing out his feet and lounging across the cushion. I know what he's trying to do – intimidate me. I bite my lip and try to pretend as though his attempt has worked. There are plenty of guys just like him in my class at school – give boys the chance to wield axes all day and build up their muscles and they all turn out just as arrogant as he clearly has.

I can't help but wonder if it's the same in the school for the kids who work in the sawmills, rather than in the forest. I cast Silas a brief glance – hoping that he doesn't notice me – and wonder whether he's a forest dweller or a mill-kid. His muscles would hint that he's a forest dweller, like me, but I can't say I particularly remember him from school.

I guess I tend not to focus too much on the arrogant kids. Or any of the other kids at all, if I'm being perfectly honest. Most people are stupid, and I find it's much easier if I just keep to myself.

Phineas presses a button, and the screen stuck against the wall suddenly blurs into life, the anthem of Panem blaring loudly from the speakers. I jump reflexively at the sudden burst of noise, and force myself to make it more pronounced as I spot Silas watching me out of the corner of his eye.

Blight starts slightly as well but Dara just blinks and looks mildly confused at our reaction. Fan-flipping-tastic; I've ended up with a deaf mentor. I throw an impatient glance in her direction before I remember myself and quickly smooth out my features, forcing myself to focus on the television and practice my 'scared little girl' expression.

Ma's lucky I enjoy acting, or I would have just laughed in her face when she had suggested her plan. Luckily I had to play a scared little sap a couple of years ago, so I can draw on experience to play this pathetic character. I know that I'm technically playing myself, but it makes me feel a damn sight better to imagine that I'm acting as someone else; it's less embarrassing that way.

_The scathing glances aren't directed at me, but at my character._

Ok, so it doesn't work that well, but at least it's one slightly effective way of ensuring that I don't start screaming and hitting people whenever I catch those looks on their faces.

Two gaudy presenters suddenly appear on the screen, a backdrop of the Capitol buildings behind them. They grin at us broadly, and one of them shakes his lime green hair out of his eyes. How is it possible that we feel intimidated by these people? They seem like such ridiculous, bumbling fools to me that it makes me feel sick that a rebellion against them ever could have failed. It's shocking to think that however useless they may be, the people in the districts surpass them in this respect by miles.

"Are you excited to watch a recap of the reapings?" the one with the green hair asks, practically hopping up and down in excitement, "Because I know I am."

_Just get on with it. _

Finally District 1, possibly the most hated of all districts, flickers onto the screen, and the camera pans out across a sea of irritatingly perfect people. I catch glimpses of soft skin and thick manes of hair. I run my fingers through my own straggly locks, my fingertips catching on split ends as I do.

I lose interest as a girl with short blonde hair pushes her way to the front of the crowd and saunters up the stairs with a triumphant grin pasted across her face. I will never understand the mentality of those people who long to be in the Hunger Games. Any one of them can feel free to take my place if they wish...

The tributes reaped from the first two districts are predictably huge and utterly terrifying. Just as the pair from district three are pale and wearing thick rimmed glasses. My eyes flicker over to examine the wall paper as I see a tanned girl reaped from District 4. There's never any variety to these Games; I would say that I was surprised that the Capitol citizens don't get bored after all these years of identical tributes, but based on the few of them I've seen, I wouldn't have thought that they would have the brains to recognise the similarities.

My eyes are suddenly drawn back to the screen as I hear a familiar name being called. The camera immediately locates me in the crowd, and I'm gratified to see that I do, indeed, look absolutely pathetic. The colour has faded out of my cheeks and my eyes are beginning to swim with water.

The two presenters immediately begin making comments about the tears that start streaming down my cheeks as I clamber up the steps onto the stage. "Something tells me that this one might not be much of a fighter."

The other one bursts into laughter, "yeah, I think you might be right about that one; you usually are."

"Don't worry Johanna," Silas suddenly says from beside me. I glance over at him, "maybe you can drown the other tributes with your tears."

Anger flares in my stomach, and for about the fourth time since we got onto the train I get the strongest urge to punch him right in the face to remove that stupid smirk from his lips.

_No- no punching, and no yelling. _I press my lips together tightly, hoping profusely that it makes me look scared rather than incredibly pissed off. I think it works because he shoots me a nasty smile and then turns his attention back to the screen to watch himself walk onto the stage. "The contrast between our two District 7 tributes this year really is fascinating," one of the presenters comments idly, while the other raves about how thick Silas' arm muscles are.

You have to love the shallow attitude of the Capitol folk. It really is something else.

The recaps continue, showing shot after shot of horrified looking kids mounting the stage in their various districts. Finally a skinny little boy almost trips up the steps in District 12 and the reapings are over. I heave a sigh of relief as the camera flashes back to the two presenters. They immediately start making comments about who their favourites are, and which ones they would suggest putting money on.

I feel like screaming at the television when, after a long analysis discussing the pros and cons of various tributes, they both come to the conclusion that the tributes from the first two districts would be the safest bet. No shit – a blind squirrel could have figured that one out, and I once saw one run headfirst into a tree trunk. And I'm fairly sure that one actually did have eyes.

"I'm assuming you want to be trained separately?" Blight asks, climbing wearily to his feet and glancing between us.

No, actually, I think Silas is _exactly _the sort of person I would want to form an alliance with. It's not as though he'd drive me to the point of insanity or anything.

I just mumble, nodding my head slightly.

"I do actually want a chance of winning this thing," he points out to Blight, casting me a dismissive look.

_I hope you end up stumbling across the careers and they use their knives to wipe that stupid expression right off your face._

Huh; I'm not usually quite so violent. All the suppressed anger of the last few hours is clearly messing with my head. I need to be alone for a bit so I can scream and get all my rage out.

Instead I have to sit in the dining room with Dara for an hour, while I very calmly have to repeat every single _damn _thing I tell her at least five times before she can hear me. What really takes the piss is that I'm not even telling her anything remotely interesting. Just about how scared I am, and I how I have absolutely no skills.

"What was that?" she asks in confusion.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at her, and instead say, for the _sixth _time, "I said, I've never used any weapons before." I think back to my axe at home, and wonder how likely it will be that one will end up the arena. They normally have axes I'm sure – it's one of the weapons that even the unskilled tributes can get to grips with. Of course, I doubt many of them are able to fling an axe quite as far as I can. Not that I'm planning on owning up to that particular skill during training.

"That's right," Dara says in response to my words, "I think it _is_ time that we both get some sleep."

I grit my teeth and clench my fists underneath the table before rising to my feet, "ok then, goodnight. _You daft old bat." _

"What was that?" she says after me, but I'm already halfway out of the door and simply stop to wave jerkily at her before I dart back to my room.

I've almost made there without being spotted by anyone when Silas suddenly swaggers out from around the corner. "Look who it is," he says as he pushes past me to get to his room. I let myself be shoved against the wall, though it takes a _lot _of restraint not to shove him back.

He's just pushed his door open when he suddenly turns back around to look at me. "Don't you want even the slightest chance of winning, or have you just given up completely already?"

_Think of the frightened girl – it's not you, it's just an act. _"I don't have a chance," I mutter softly, "I'm so-" I raise my hands to my face and press them against my eyes, "I'm so sca- scared." I force my voice to catch on the last word and then I dart across to my bedroom door, practically throwing myself against the panel and then I slam it shut behind me.

The moment it clicks into place I lower my hands and glare at Silas through the door. He had _really _better hope that he doesn't run into me once we get into the arena, because I promise that I will make him pay for every scathing word that he has said to me, every scathing look he has thrown in my direction. Because I really can't stand being insulted. Even when I'm in character. It's the reason I kicked the lead in the shins once, during a performance. Apparently it had been a perfect example of improvisation. I had planned it ever since she had gotten the part instead of me.

* * *

_I do not own The Hunger Games, otherwise Johanna probably would have played a much bigger role._

Thank you to deschanel10, The Golden Kneazle and Where The Story Ends for reviewing the last chapter :) Sorry that this chapter is a little bit shorter, but I've barely had any time recently and I wanted to get _something_ written!

Also, if anyone would be interested in beta'ing this fic for me then I would really appreciate it, because I'm useless at editing my own work! If you are then just let me know :)


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 3_

* * *

I bite down on my lip, hard. I force myself to remember my mother and her plan, and concentrate on the plan rather the inane babblings of a couple of Capitol _freaks._

_Don't get angry, don't get angry, don't get angry._

This is easier said than done, however, when these multicoloured strangers are flapping around me; fiddling about with my hair and poking at my skin. But the worst bit? The worst bit is definitely the waxing. It _hurts – _I mean, proper agonising pain that makes me want to thrash and scream, and hit as many members of my prep team as I can get my hands on.

It's probably ridiculous to be obsessing over the pain of getting my leg hairs ripped brutally from my skin when I'll be in the arena in a couple of days, but that's not really all that much comfort for me right now.

On the plus side, tears are prickling at the back of my eyes because of the stinging sensation on my legs, so my prep team are under the impression that I'm a worthless sop – I can see it in their sympathetic glances as they look at me. Based on the gossip currently spilling from their lips, it won't be long before this latest piece of information is spread across the city.

_Johanna Mason – the tribute who cried even in prep._

Finally a women with silver skin beams, "we're finally done," she informs me. I blame my parents for this – couldn't they have had the good grace to have blonde rather than dark hair? I'm sure this process wouldn't have taken half as long had that been the case.

I realise the whole prep team is watching me, so I sniffle and whisper, "thank you," before ducking my head to save myself from glaring at them all. This is a lot harder than I had even begun to imagine – every time I see that ridiculous pitying look on their faces it makes me want to shriek with frustration.

No one has ever felt sorry for me; I've never let them. I hid Ma's illness from the people at school for as long as I was able – not that it was particularly difficult seeing as I don't like talking to any of them at the best of times. I remember when my teacher had found out and tried to keep me behind after class. _I don't need your help – I don't need anyone's help. _So I earned my own money to help Ma, because if there's one thing that I've learned growing up in a slowly disintegrating forest-dweller's shack, it's that you can't rely on anyone else to do anything for you.

That's why it's so hard for me to play this part, but all I have to do is think of Ma and it gets easier. Well, maybe not much, but it does help.

I'm dunked into a bath full of sickly smelling liquid and I wrinkle my nose. I suppose it should upset me somewhat that I'm naked in front of three strangers watching me with scrutinising eyes, but nakedness has never particularly bothered me. After all – we were born in our skin, not just with clothes on, so surely that's the way that we're supposed to be?

Not that I've ever put that theory to the test by walking around District 7 naked, but all I'm saying is that if I was forced to do it, I don't imagine that I would feel embarrassed. You grow up sharing a two bedroom house between six people, and nothing can embarrass you much anymore.

Eventually they decided that I've soaked for long enough and I stumble back across to the chair in the middle of the room, and perch myself delicately on the edge. "It's alright sweetheart, just relax," the silver skinned women tells me in a soft voice. I just duck my head and push myself back onto the chair.

_Don't _ever_ call me sweetheart._

I _hate _it – I hate having to sit there and let them do whatever they want with me. They sweep brushes across my cheeks, clip things into my hair and draw with what feels like pencil underneath my eyes. Possibly I'm supposed to be waiting in anticipation to see what I look like when they're finished with me, but strangely enough I can't seem to work up any excitement... It's almost as though I don't particularly care what the Capitol is going to think of me. Shocking, I know.

I try to disconnect myself from my body and I choose to picture Silas, considering for a moment what I will do to him the moment I come across him in the arena. I sincerely hope that no one kills him before I get the chance as I remember his arrogance last night. I would never have called myself a brutal person before this, but I have absolutely no qualms about killing him.

But in my mind, while I can picture a terrified expression on his face, and the axe which I will hold up before him, I can't imagine the moment of his death. I can't bring myself to conjure up an image of me swinging the axe into his neck.

I shake myself slightly – forcing myself to get a grip. If I see him in the arena, I'll _kill _him. I wonder if it's easy? It must be for some of the tributes, because I've seen victors watching the re-caps of their games, pumping their fists and grinning at the screen.

But then again, I suppose that I wouldn't want the whole of Panem to know my true feelings about what I'd done in the arena. Maybe, if I win, I'll be one of those arrogant, celebrating victors, revelling in my success. But I've never been comfortable around death, so why would it change in the arena?

I jerk my eyes open again, forcing myself out of these thoughts. Because, honestly, what's the point? I can't predict what will happen in the arena, or how I'll react to it, so it's best that I don't even try. So I just sit there, as still as I possibly can and wait for them to finish with whatever it is that they're doing.

Finally they hold a mirror in front of me, and my reflection flickers into view. I barely even recognise myself; my dark hair is clipped back from my face and falls in waves around my shoulders and my skin glitters slightly as I move my head. My lips are stained a bronze colour and there's a swathe of green covering each eyelid. It doesn't make much of an impression on me – I know some of the girls at school are constantly jabbering on about make-up, and their jealousy of the people in the Capitol who have it at such easy access, but that kind of talk has always bored me senseless. The only thing I consider is that my now dark lips make me look dangerous, and it will be a lot harder to convince people that I'm no threat if they see me like this – I don't look young enough.

But then again, people tend to see exactly what they want to see and the other tributes will all have watched my reaping and no doubt marked me out as useless. I doubt a thin layer of make-up is going to change their already formed perceptions of me. _Good._

I mutter vaguely under my breath, hoping that passes for _thanks, I'm so grateful but too terrified to speak. _

* * *

I _hate _it. I hate _her. _Stupid, prissy, stuck-up Lulu with her stupid prissy stuck-up hair and stupid- I stop these thoughts and force a neutral expression onto my face, which is pretty damn hard to do when you're dressed as a _fucking _tree.

Every _single _year for as long as I can remember our tributes get forced into this ridiculous get-up. I've never been able to understand how any of them could move wearing a tree trunk around their torso, and I understand no better now that I'm actually wearing it. My legs are free from the knees down, but I still feel as though every single step I take is going to send me flying flat onto my own face. Then I would just have to roll to the chariot, which might help further this front that I'm putting on, but I have limits and my pride won't let me sink that far.

Lulu smiles proudly across at her handiwork as I shuffle along the corridors towards the stadium for the opening ceremony. How she can possibly look proud about _this _is completely and utterly beyond me. Her job is hardly a difficult one, is it?

_Hmm, so what should I dress the tributes as this year? Trees? _Yes, what a novel idea. Lets dress the tributes from the lumber district as great big hulking trees. Thumbs up for originality there Lulu. I'm shocked that they haven't moved you up to one of the more _interesting _districts, given your talent for creativity.

We arrive at the door to the stadium and I shift myself awkwardly to allow Lulu to open the door for me, seeing as my arms are sticking out uncomfortably at my sides and I can't really move them all that well. She gives me a glance that clearly says she feels herself above opening the door for a mere district girl and I grit my teeth against the anger that surges within my body.

What gives them the right to consider themselves so much better than we are?

But that's not what I'm supposed to be thinking. I should be nervous, overwhelmed by the bright lights of the crowd as we move out towards the chariot standing waiting for me. I bite my lip and try to adopt an expression of terror. I think it works when Lulu pats me absently on the shoulder and then manoeuvres me towards the chariot, decorated in vines and bark.

I can't help but feel a pang of satisfaction as I spot Silas in an identical costume, looking thoroughly disgruntled. Ha, at least it isn't just me. It makes me feel somewhat better to know that this is probably more of a knock to his pride than it is to mine, seeing as mine has already taken a pretty serious beating since the reaping.

He smirks patronisingly down at me, "poor little Johanna. Already terrified and you're not even in the arena yet." He climbs up onto the chariot, and I have to suppress a grin as he wobbles and almost lurches back onto the floor

I glance around for a moment, trying to take in the sight of the other tributes. I see a group of about four huddled together besides a chariot sparkling with silver gems, and I recognised the blonde girl from the only reaping that I had actually paid attention to when we had watched the re-caps. A-ha; the tributes from the highest districts must be planning on forming the traditional alliance. Not that that comes as much of a surprise.

Careers is what we call them back home, and indeed in most of the other poorer districts I believe, and I always despise watching them on screen, because they're so powerful and the other tributes don't stand a chance against them. This is the group who I desperately need to convince that I'm not a threat – if they have other targets then it will give me a chance.

I pull my eyes away from them, trying not to notice the muscles straining their costumes because then I'll only ending up comparing myself with them, and that can't lead to anything good. I'm been working in the forests with an axe since I was little, but what chance does that give me against these trained killing machines?

Lulu sighs impatiently behind me, "you need to get onto the chariot now, Johanna." _Despite the fact that pretty much every other tribute is still on the ground? _Well, I guess moving anywhere does take longer when you're a tree.

I clamber up, determined not to stumble like Silas, and I want to shoot him a triumph glance when I manage it, but somehow manage to keep it off my face.

I feel more exposed, sitting up here amidst the vines, as though I can feel every eye in the crowd watching, though in reality I doubt many of them are paying attention to pathetic little Johanna.

"Remember to keep your head up," Lulu says briskly before she vanishes behind me. This is one thing that I can guarantee I will not do. I cannot raise my head to survey the other tributes or even the crowd – I have to make it seem as though I have already given up. Not that this is particularly difficult to act, because I just have to think back to the moment that I mounted the stage at the reaping, because wasn't that exactly what I was thinking then? That I couldn't win this thing.

So I bite down on my lower lip hard enough to cause tears to sting the backs of my eyes, and I ignore Silas' scathing glance as he notices the liquid in my eyes. _I'm a character – just a character,_ I remind myself, and I let my head drop to stare at my hands, clenching tightly in my lap.

Slowly, the chariots begin rolling into place and I chew on my lip even harder as I hear a cheer go up, meaning that the District 1 tributes must just have been revealed to the crowd.

_Don't raise your head, don't glare at Silas. _I chant it over and over again in my head, until finally something rumbles underneath me, sending shudders through my body, and the chariot begins moving forward. I blink rapidly as a sudden blast of light hits me in the face, sending some of the moisture in my eyes running down my cheeks.

People around me are chanting Silas' name. Of course they are; a great big hulking tribute from a district apart from one, two or four, he's a novelty in their eyes, particularly when compared with his weak little district partner.

The noise of the crowd reverberates up through my chest, and for moment I'm almost reminded of the audience at the end of a play. Except for the fact that I'm usually proud when I stand before a crowd like that. Here, I am only ashamed. Ashamed of how they see me, and what they think of me. But more than that, I'm ashamed of the fact that _this _might offer me my only shot at winning – as though I'm not good enough to win without duplicity. And the fact that I'm so willing to abandon my pride and dignity in order to give myself the slightest chance of making it back home? What does that say about me?

* * *

_I do not own The Hunger Games, otherwise Johanna probably would have played a much bigger role._

Thank you so much to Daydreaming Viking Girl, deschanel10 and GrossGirl18 for reviewing the last chapter, and I'm sorry for being a useless updater! If it's any consolation; the fact that it's summer means I'm going to be updating a lot more regularly now. :D


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Four_

* * *

My fingers stumble again, and the piece of rope falls to the ground, followed quickly by a sigh from the mouth of the Capitol instructor at the station. I make my hands tremble, and then bend back down to pick it up. I'm certain that I hear a faint laugh from one of the tributes behind me, and I grit my teeth in annoyance before I remember that it's a good thing that they see me as incompetent.

"Now Johanna, let's try again, and this time _please _take it more slowly," the instructor says impatiently as I raise my head. I glance at his curly green hair for a moment, working hard to hide the disgust I feel from my expression. Then I duck my head and attempt the knot again.

As my fingers struggle to replicate the complex structure that he had demonstrated to me almost an hour ago now – and this is something I don't have to fake, because subtlety has never been my strong point; weapons appeal far more to me than traps ever have – I think back on my performance during this morning's training. I'm fairly certain that everyone who has even just glanced at me is now convinced that I will be no threat in the arena. I let an arrow simply drop out of my bow rather than even attempting to shoot it at the target, I almost dropped a mace on the toes of the mousy haired female tribute from District 11, I knocked over the camouflage stand and I've tripped over my own feet numerous times since I left the elevator this morning.

In fact, I think I'm probably drawing a bit too much attention to myself, and decide that I need to sink into the background a little more from now on. After all, it's clear now that I'm useless, so I just need to demonstrate the fact that I'm pathetic and hopefully that will be enough. I suspect that Silas is helping on this front – he seems to have joined a group of two other boys; one of who I'm fairly sure is from District 5, but I have no idea about the other one – and they keep looking over in my direction with smirks on their faces. _Well, thanks for that one Silas, you're making my job a hell of a lot easier. _

Still, I can't help the familiar prickle of frustration every time I catch the scornful glances of the others, because if I had it my way then I would be trying to demonstrate my strength to others, trying to intimidate them and make them fear me in the arena. Of course, that wouldn't work, because I'm not big enough to be scary, but it would be enough to mark me out as competition, someone that the others would need to take down quickly in order to win.

Finally the bell for lunch rings and I keep my head hanging down low as I stumble into the canteen behind the exuberant wave of the other tributes. I join the queue behind a pair of tributes, who's pale skin and spindly limbs leads me to believe that they're from District 3, because it's a well known fact that they don't see the sunshine much there. They both glance over at me, and then the dark haired boy leans across and whispers something in the ear of the girl. She bites down hard on her lips, but fails to stop a splutter of laughter erupting from her mouth. "Don't, Elmo, she hisses, slapping at his arm.

I glance down to find that my hands have curled into fists of their own accord; the fact that even these pathetic tributes are making fun of my weakness sets my blood boiling with fury. Thankfully I don't think that they notice my reaction, and continue speaking in low voices, this time gesturing towards one of the other tributes. I roll my eyes at them and grab a tray, piling food onto the top of it. I hope acting pathetic doesn't mean that I'm not allowed to eat, because the food here is just about the only good thing about the Capitol, and I want to try as much of it as I possibly can before they throw me into the arena.

I dart off to a table by myself, and eat slowly, scanning the room as I do so to make sure that no one is watching me. I feel as though I constantly have to be on my guard here, so that no one can work out the lie than I'm telling, or showing. "Do you mind if I sit here?" a wavering voice suddenly asks beside my shoulder, and I raise my head to see a girl standing there. She's smaller than me, with dark frizzy hair and wide frightened eyes. _Great, why did she have to choose my table? _I glance around, noticing that there are plenty of other free ones.

"Sure," I mumble, gesturing at my empty table and she sits awkwardly opposite me. I drop my gaze to my food and attempt to ignore her. I've never socialised much with other people – even at lunchtime at school I preferred to take my lunch outside and sit by myself rather than join in with their stupid banter. Will always said that I must have been lonely, but I've always preferred my own company – in my experience, other people tend to just be annoying and ask stupid questions that you'd rather not answer. I just never understand why other people feel they have the right to need to find out everything about you. Are people not allowed to have secrets? Yes, people get on my nerves, and I'm fairly sure that I annoy them back, so everyone wins when I keep out of their way.

For a few moments I stop worrying about having to make conversation with this girl, because she doesn't even raise her head to look at me, let alone talk to me. So I simply continue shovelling food into my mouth and glancing around at the other tributes. Interestingly, quite a few of them seem to be sitting in groups of about two or three people, and while the Career alliance remains the largest in the room, I notice that others are clearly already forming bonds. Perhaps this is why this girl chose to sit next to me; the few tributes that sit alone in the room look isolated and edgy. I just feel jealous of the fact that they don't have to be constantly alert that some stranger is going to attempt to make conversation with them.

I stiffen slightly as the girl raises her head, "I'm Iona, by the way. District 8."

_Ugh, and now I have to make conversation with you, _I think with annoyance. If I was being myself then I'm sure my glare would have kept her away but, of course, poor weak little Johanna would never glare at anyone. Oh no; she would be grateful that someone was actually being friendly to her. Stupid wimpy character. "Johanna, " I mutter in response, "from seven."

"The Careers look strong this year," she says thoughtfully, her eyes straying over to their raucous table. I have no idea how they can sit there and pretend to get along like that; that alliance has always bothered me the most in previous games. They all help each other out and hunt down the other tributes together, but there's this awful unspoken knowledge that the alliance has to end, and then it's every tribute for themselves.

I shrug, hoping that she'll soon get bored and leave me alone. After all, it's hardly as though I'm being the greatest conversationalist in the world. I glance up and find her watching me with raised eyebrows. I recoil slightly, feeling distinctly uncomfortable under her scrutinising gaze, but I hold her gaze back, because I've always hated it when people stare at me like that. For others, it probably irks them because they're made to feel self-conscious and wonder if there's something wrong with their appearance, but it bothers me because it seems to show a lack of respect or an attempt at intimidation.

Suddenly I realise that I've been watching her for too long and it seems too much of a challenge for my character. I drop my gaze, concentrating solely on my food and hoping that I didn't reveal too much about myself by staring back at her.

* * *

Over the next couple of days, I stick to making myself invisible during training. I stumble at several stations, making it clear that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing and I definitely don't look anyone else in the eyes, instead keeping my gaze trained on the floor. Fortunately Iona doesn't choose to come and sit with me again at lunchtime, so I'm spared that particular piece of discomfort, but sometimes I see her watching me out of the corner of her eye. I'm probably just paranoid, but I swear that she looks almost suspicious.

_Idiot, _I tell myself as tap my fingers anxiously against the table in front of me. It's the last afternoon of training, which means that we have to demonstrate our skills in front of the Gamemakers in order to receive a score which will then be broadcast to the whole of Panem, and will likely affect our sponsors. Not that I'll have any sponsors anyway; that would ruin the plan. If I'm good enough to get even a single sponsor, then I've pretty much failed. Might as well aim high – for a zero, if that's even possible. I feel as though my strategy will probably be successful – trip over my own feet, knock into several stations and possibly cry if I can bring myself to do it. I've cried more in this past week than I have for the past seventeen years of my life.

"Silas Haywood," woman announces in a sing-song voice, and he swaggers past me into the private room. I try to imagine him making a complete fool of himself in there, and it makes me feel somewhat better. Even though I'm sure that he's too slick to embarrass himself like that. No doubt he's swinging an axe around and grinning away like the cocky idiot he is.

_Please trip up, please. _Perhaps if I listen closely then I'll even be able to hear the clatter as he falls down.

Silence.

Well, it was hardly like I was asking for a fucking miracle; it would have made my life a little more pleasant if he had even taken a little stumble. Plus, he's a lot taller than I am, so he'd have a lot farther to fall than I will when I'll have to force myself to trip up in there.

"Johanna Mason," the woman pokes her head back around the door, and I stumble to my feet. She gives me what I assume is supposed to be a reassuring smile, but actually just looks ridiculous with lips that have been surgically altered to practically not exist anymore. "Now, just relax, and show them what she can do." She disappears from my shoulder, and I'm left facing a room full of disinterested men and women.

"You may begin," one of them informs me, with a sweep of his hand. Oh, well how generous of you. Conceited, stuck-up-

I realise they're all watching me in confusion – right; I'm supposed to actually be demonstrating something. Yes, I need to demonstrate my incompetence.

I stumble across to the knife stand, scuffing my feet against the ground as I walk. As I reach the display set out in front of me, I pick up one of heaviest looking weapons, just to make it look more realistic. As I examine it for a moment, I realise it actually looks quite similar to the knives I use back home sometimes to chop the vines from the trees before they get chopped down. Perhaps I should try and get my hands on one of these if I can't get hold of an axe in the arena.

Shit; I realise that they're still watching me. Well, perhaps it will look better if I'm more hesitant, act as though I don't have a clue what I'm doing. I attempt to chuck the knife at the target against the wall, but deliberately throw it too short and it sticks in the ground about half way between me and the target. I bite my lip, and turn quickly away from that stand, heading towards the knot station instead. I don't have to pretend anything here; I attempt several knots, drop them onto the ground when it becomes clear that I've completely failed and then stumble over them as I leave the station. I hear one of the Gamemakers clear their throat as silence fills the room. I walk slowly over to the axe station; it's the first time that I've gone anywhere near them during the training, and I ease one out of the stand, clutching it loosely between my palms. There are several blocks of wood dotted around and I attempt to swing the axe towards one of them. I'm not holding it properly though, so I lose my grip on the handle and it slips out of my grasp. I make a weak effort to grab it back, but I knock it with my fingers at the same time so it goes skidding across the floor.

"Ok, I think we've seen enough, Miss Mason," a male voice says from the other side of the room, and I duck my head as though trying to hide my embarrassment before I scurry from the room without looking back at them. My cheeks flush naturally, because I'm so ashamed at the awful display which I just put on, but at least it's done with now, and that was the part of the preparation that I had been dreading the most ever since I formulated my plan for it in my mind.

Well, I doubt anyone will have done worse than me.

* * *

I perch awkwardly on the sofa beside Dara, who doesn't seem to have much clue what's going on, waiting for them to announce the scores. I spent the rest of the afternoon locked away in my room, too ashamed of myself to face the others. Even though I know my performance isn't real, that I could have done much better had I actually been trying, it's still humiliating for them to see me like that.

I saw in their expressions that I had them completely convinced, which means that they don't doubt my front for a single moment, so I should be happy about that. But, _oddly enough, _I despise the impression of me that they now have. My only hope is that I survive in the arena long enough to be able to reveal my true self to the audience, and then they'll understand that I'm not actually as useless as I was making out to be.

"And now, it's time for the moment everyone has been waiting in anticipation for all day," a gaudy presenter suddenly announces on the screen in front of us.

"Well, some of us have been waiting in _fear, _haven't we Johanna?" Silas gripes from the other side of the room. I squeak slightly in response, which makes him snort.

"That's enough, Silas," Blight mutters testily from Dara's other side.

"What's going on?" Dara asks loudly, turning to me with an expression of bemusement on her face. _If you're not going to be any help to me, then you can stop bothering me. _I just shrug and shift my gaze back towards the television screen, where a headshot of the blonde haired boy from District 1 has just popped up. His name, "Dare Edris," flashes up under the screen, quickly followed by the number "9".

"No surprises there then," Blight murmurs, writing something down in a little notebook resting on his lap. I notice that Dara holds no such notebook in her hands – perhaps I should be taking by own notes, but I can't help but feel that would look a little suspicious. _I'm useless, and I'm definitely going to die in the bloodbath, but I still need to know exactly who my opponents are. _Perhaps not...

The girl from District 1 is next to appear on the screen, "Eden Azura," receives an "8" which sets Blight scribbling away again.

After this, I concentrate on making myself look as nervous as possible; I keep ducking my eyes and biting my nails to show my discomfort and fear. I only notice that the boy from District 4, "Ronan Scomber," receives the highest score out of the Careers with a "10." The rest of them get eights and nines. As Blight said, it's hardly a surprise that they've gotten high marks; no other tribute is likely to score above these numbers.

Finally Silas' picture appears on the television, and I see him puff out his chest slightly out of the corner of my eye. "7" flashes up underneath his name, and I have to grit my teeth in annoyance. That's a frustratingly high score for a non-career tribute, and this will only serve to inflate his ego even further. I don't think anyone would argue that he needs anymore help doing that/

Then I raise my head to watch my own scare. I breathe in deeply as my picture comes into view and my name appears underneath it.

"2." I hear a collective sigh travel through the room, and Phineas throws a disheartened glance in my direction. I'm disappointed too, but because I had hoped for something even lower. Still, there hasn't been anyone lower than a two so far, so my title as the worst tribute remains unchallenged. Dara pats me on my knee, but she doesn't seem too concerned; probably because she knows that it's less work for her if I die in the bloodbath.

Not that I'll ever rely on her help once I get into that arena, even once I allow myself to reveal the lie. I've never relied on anyone for anything in my life, and I certainly don't plan on starting now.

* * *

_I do not own The Hunger Games, otherwise Johanna probably would have played a much bigger role._

Thanks to Daydreaming Viking Girl and Delta Omega for reviewing the last chapter :) This is currently unedited, which I'm planning to do when I have more time tomorrow. But, on the upside, there's only one more chapter before we get into the arena!


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